


Ramsay and...Friends

by DuschaPendragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Dancing, Flirting, Mind Games, Multi, Murder, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuschaPendragon/pseuds/DuschaPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have a ton of weird Ramsay pairings in my head but not enough time to make them into big stories, so I thought I'd throw them all together. I'll just update randomly most likely. The archive warnings I've chosen are to come. Some of these stories might be pretty weird, some might be pretty violent so if you don't like violence then, well...Ramsay is his own warning...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Madness - Daenerys/Ramsay (and Reek)

Her brother had always raved on about how majestic the Iron Throne was. Formidable and grand to the eye…and just as painful to her behind.  
Daenerys shifted her weight in an attempt to find a more comfortable position as they led the man away to be executed. She had not allowed herself to attempt to ease the pain whilst he was before her; she would show no weakness before Stannis Baratheon, the man who’d named himself King and brother to the man who’d murdered Rhaegar and forced her mother and Viserys to flee their homeland.  
_I am the blood of the dragon. I was born to sit this throne._  
She caught Ser Barristan’s concerned gaze; smiled, and shook her head. She knew what he was thinking and it simply would not do. “A King should never sit easy” Had been Aegon the Conqueror’s words. The same went for a queen. She had no need of cushions. She was not the girl she had been in Meereen. That girl had died the day she’d flown across the Narrow Sea and bathed Westeros in fire and blood.  
“Who’s next?” She asked Missandei.  
“Theon Greyjoy, your grace.” The woman replied, glancing down at her scroll. Dany’s heart fluttered a little as she remembered the monstrous man that had infiltrated her pyramid in Meereen and tried to carry her off. He would have succeeded were it not for Daario who returned from bathing on the balcony in time to slay him.  
“Greyjoy? Is he a relation to the…”  
“Victarion. Yes, he is his nephew.” Her Hand informed.  
“And what do you know of him?” She would not allow him in until she knew more.  
“I know that he’s risen from the grave. The boy was dead last I heard of him. I met him once though. A cocky youth with a smile that made the girls giggle and the men growl. Good with a bow, I’ve heard. He was taken hostage by Eddard Stark following his father’s rebellion.” Tyrion informed. He said it all slowly which she was thankful for. There was a lot to learn.  
“More of a ward than a hostage, your grace. Lord Stark raised Theon as one of his own.” Jorah added.  
“Yet that did not stop him from murdering two young boys and burning the place to the ground. No doubt he would have killed my wife’s brothers had they not escaped his grasp.” Tyrion did not snap, but he got the same look he always got when he spoke of his wife. It was a sad look. Lady Sansa had remained in Winterfell to help her brother Rickon rule the North. Dany had not liked separating the husband and wife after their brief reunion. “My place is at your side, your Grace, and my wife’s place is with her brother. The Starks do not fare well in the South.” Tyrion had assured, smiling.  
“He is not alone, your grace.” Missandei’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Ramsay Bolton wishes to speak with him.” Dany frowned. She had not come across this before. None of her prisoners ever requested things of her. She looked over at Tyrion quizzically. “Why would he wish to speak with Theon Greyjoy?” She asked.  
“I don’t know. Perhaps he took him prisoner following the sack of Winterfell and wishes to inform you of his crimes.” Tyrion offered.  
“I shall hear of his crimes from his own lips. Send Theon Greyjoy in. The bastard can wait.” Daario bowed and signalled to the guards who opened the doors. They groaned noisily as the hinges complained of their weight. Then there was silence.  
The silence dragged on and on. They each looked about, confused. Dany shifted her weight again. _If I have to wait any longer I’m going to need a cushion._  
Then there came a sound. An uneven shuffle. The seconds dragged by painfully as he slowly came into view, accompanied by two Unsullied. It was piteous to watch. The man paused before he walked through the doors and she could see him preparing himself for the journey to the throne that must seem like a million miles to him.  
Dany turned to look at Tyrion with the question in her eyes. He shook his head. “Let him walk.” Her Hand whispered. _Of course. He murdered two boys. Two innocent boys._  
Yet when Theon finally reached her, she couldn’t imagine him being able to kill anyone. His head twitched repeatedly and he did not seem to be able to look up at her and wrung his hands together nervously. Even from her uncomfortable seat, she could hear him whimpering.  
Glancing at Tyrion, she could tell he too was shocked by what he saw.  
_A cocky youth with a smile that made the girls giggle and the men growl._ Whoever that cocky youth had been, he was no more. Only the shell remained; and a fragile shell at that.  
Missandei met her gaze and the Queen nodded for her to continue.  
“You stand before Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, The Rhoynar, the Andals, the First Men and Protector of the realm. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen. The Unburnt. Breaker of chains and Mother of Dragons.” Missandei finished. Theon looked ready to collapse from the effort of holding himself up. He had winced and cowered from every word she said; continuing to wring his hands together. Dany noted that they had not remained still long enough for her to see them clearly.  
“Why have you come, Theon Greyjoy?” Dany asked. Commanding, but her voice remained gentle. She ignored Tyrion’s sideways glance.  
The broken man muttered something but she failed to hear it. Missandei shrugged as she turned to her for an explanation.  
“You may speak, Theon.” Dany encouraged. The trembling did not stop but he managed to look up, though some invisible force tried to prevent him from doing so. “N…not Theon…R…Reek…” He stammered. Dany wondered if she’d heard him correctly.  
“Repeat yourself Greyjoy!” Tyrion barked. Daenerys turned to give him a warning look. _He would have killed Lady Sansa’s brothers._ Of course Tyrion would dislike him.  
“M…my name is…R…Reek…” It was louder this time. Once again, her council looked around in confusion. Even Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah looked perturbed by this figure.  
“And why, pray tell me, do you insist your name is Reek?” Dany asked. She tried to speak gently but the incessant twitching disturbed her.  
Theon dipped his head again and began to whimper, unable to speak the words.  
“Theon Greyjoy. You were brought here to confess your crimes to us. You betrayed the trust of your good friend, Robb Stark. Conspired with your father to rebel against the crown. Seized Winterfell then burned it down with all its habitants still inside when you were surrounded by Stark reinforcements. What’s more, you murdered two innocent boys and claimed they were Brandon and Rickon Stark. Do you admit to committing these offences?” Dany turned to look at Tyrion.  
“This is not a trial.” She hissed.  
“Of course not. The man is guilty but this creature is not. I’m just trying to work out what this creature _is_ exactly.” Tyrion whispered back.  
They waited.  
Theon said nothing.  
Neither did Reek.  
Both of them continued to tremble.  
“Your grace, perhaps we should bring in the bastard…”  
“Not bastard! Master is legitimized! Not Snow, never Snow!” They all started at his outburst. Dany bit down on her lip as her back complained of the sudden movement.  
Theon had returned to his hunched position, only now he groaned instead of whimpered. She looked over at her Hand who nodded in silent agreement. “Send the ba…Ramsay Bolton in.” She ordered. Daario dipped his head; his handsome face an unreadable mask.  
The doors opened once more, protesting all the while. It did not take so long for the figure and his guards to appear this time, nor did he pause before entering the throne room. Ramsay Bolton marched passed the elegant columns and exquisite tapestries without a second glance. His eyes remained solely on the hunched figure that cowered before her; flinching each time a footstep echoed.  
Daenerys did not take her eyes off of him. He moved with the quickness of a hunter. Despite his imprisonment, he appeared as lithe and toned as someone who had just been for a ride would. His movements were sharp and unpredictable. The Unsullied that walked with him kept their hands tightly around his upper arms; though Dany doubted that would be enough to hold him.  
Only when he had reached Theon’s side did he seem to notice her.  
“You stand before Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, The Rhoynar, the Andals, the First…”  
“Do we have to go through all of that again? My pet is tired. Look, he looks just about ready to drop!” The bastard did not sound the least bit concerned. He grinned madly at Missandei’s stunned expression. Then his cold grey eyes switched to her. “Your grace.” He bowed. Low. Deep. Mocking.  
Dany raised an eyebrow.  
“You must forgive my rudeness. I was simply confirmed over the welfare of my pet. It has been a long time since we have seen each other. It was most cruel of you to keep us apart.”  
“Must? I shall not forgive your rudeness. I am a Queen.” She reminded him with a pleased smile. Ramsay cocked his head and slid a pink tongue over his bottom lip. “Indeed. And a pretty Queen at that.” He bit down on his lip.  
“Hold your tongue.” Jorah warned; resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. Ramsay simply turned and smiled at him.  
“You requested an audience with me. Why?” She asked, wanting this man out of her sight as soon as possible.  
“I want my Reek back. I want my freedom back.” He stated plainly. “You are the breaker of chains. Break my chains for me sweetling.” He added with a grin.  
“I am not your sweetling. And I break the chains of those who do not deserve them. You do.” Dany had heard what this bastard had done and it had made her want to wretch. She should have killed him the moment they had him.  
“And why is that my Queen?” He cocked his head again; his eyes challenged. He wanted to hear her say it.  
“If you wish to be free, say the word. My headsman stands beside you. His arakh is always sharpened and ready.” She would not give in to him. She would not give him the satisfaction.  
“Headsman? Death by beheading? I had expected something far more spectacular. You are the mother of dragons, after all.”  
“You are not worthy of their fire. And I would not want to spoil their appetites by tasting you.” Daenerys couldn’t stop the curl of her lip.  
“I might taste better than you think.” He arched an eyebrow. Dany looked away, exasperated. “Speaking of which, where are your pets? I would have thought they’d be by your side. My Reek is _always_ at my side, aren’t you pet?” He glanced down at Theon who seemed to grow smaller with every second Ramsay’s gaze was on him.  
“Yes master.” The broken man muttered.  
“They are not my pets!” Dany snapped. “They are my children.” _My children that I had to lock away before they turned my realm to ash._  
“Your children? Your cunt must be awfully misshapen.” The bastard laughed _._ Cruelly and coldly. _He is not afraid of death._  
“I will not warn you again, bastard.” Jorah growled. And suddenly the laughter was gone. Ramsay turned to face her knight with nothing but malice in his eyes. “Why? Is that not what you imagined it looks like? Bet it tastes like honey too when you lick it in your dreams.” Ramsay hissed.  
“Enough.” Daenerys called, infuriated by his words.  
“Did I ruin your fantasy for you? Are your dreams the closest you’ve ever got? She’ll spread her legs for some sellsword but not you, ay Mormont?” His voice grew louder and more maniacal with each word. He was laughing again now; enjoying watching Jorah grow redder and redder.  
“I said ENOUGH!” Her voice filled the hall; anger projecting it so it bounced off the walls. “Take him back to his cell. I will deal with Greyjoy and then it shall be your turn bastard. You shall pay for your crimes and your words with that maddened head of yours.” The unsullied immediately began to drag the monster away.  
“Mad is it? MAD? Well you would know wouldn’t you, dragon whore? Runs in that fucked up family of yours doesn’t it?” He yelled as he fought against his guards. “I want my Reek!” He screamed. “I will not leave without my Reek!”  
“MASTER! Please, your grace…please don’t kill him…DON’T KILL MY MASTER!”  
It all happened so fast, Daenerys barely had time to register it.  
The creature leapt at her with fear and anger in his wide eyes. Before he could reach her, Selmy blocked his path in time for Daario to catch up and drag him back.  
“DON’T TOUCH MY REEK!” Ramsay roared. He threw all his strength into his escape; pushing his guards to the ground. He must have managed to grab one of their swords because Dany blinked and he was suddenly at Missandei’s throat; the blade kissing her olive-skin.  
“Release my Reek or the bitch dies. Let him go or I swear I’ll rape her fucking corpse right before your eyes.” He growled. It was no empty threat.  
They all looked to Dany.  
She nodded.  
The frightened creature that had made to attack her scuttled away from them all, right towards Ramsay. His grip on Missandei fell away and he shoved her aside. The pet wound itself around his legs; burying his face into the fabric of his filthy breeches. “There there my pet.” She heard him coo.  
Dany could stomach no more of it.  
“Take them away. The sight of them sickens me.” She ordered, though the power had gone from her voice. Neither of them even looked at her as they were led away. Halfway across the hall, the creature named Reek collapsed and his Master picked him up and carried him out of the door; like a mother would her child.  
“Will you have them killed, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked. She found herself unable to answer. Her stomach continued to writhe sickeningly and she had to ball her hands into fists to try and stop them shaking.  
“No. I will have them sent to the black cells. If those monsters want to remain together, than remain together they shall.” Her words were steadier than she could have hoped for her. She stood up, half fearing her knees would giveaway beneath her.  
_I am the blood of the dragon._  
“I am done for today. We can all use some rest, I think.” She decided; moving away from the Iron chair that had pained her for so many hours and would, no doubt, pain her for many more hours to come.


	2. Roxanne - Margaery/Ramsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First there is desire  
> Then... passion!  
> Then... suspicion! Jealousy! Anger! Betrayal!  
> Where love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust!  
> Without trust, there is no love!  
> Jealousy.Yes, jealousy...  
> Will drive you... mad!

If Cersei wanted sex, then sex was what she’d get.  
Margaery had long forgotten the routine she was supposed to be practising. It was now just her body and the music; the same song put on repeat.  
El Tango de Roxanne had always been her go to song ever since she’d seen Moulin Rouge when she was fifteen. Throughout her teenage years, her mother had warned her how important reputation was to a family as important as the Tyrell’s. Anyone Margaery slept with, or even just kissed, could sell the story to the papers for a decent amount of money. Even if she trusted the man, it was guaranteed that the whole of England would know by the end of the week. Even her grandmother had cautioned her on who and what she spread her legs for. Of course, things were different now. She didn’t have the added family pressure and she wasn’t young and foolish. There was just so much… _rage._ White hot rage all pent up inside of her; tearing her apart.  
Margaery had always been virtuous and had maintained an air of chastity, but she had also been very curious as a girl. She’d needed to find an outlet for what had once been sexual frustration, but was now anger and grief. So she’d tried the only way she knew how; dance. And this song never failed to get her blood up.  
For a time, she wasn’t Margaery little-miss-perfect Tyrell, she was Roxanne. Roxanne in her dress, selling her body to the night and twisting the men around her little finger until they were madly in love with her.  
Margaery made her body spin suddenly; wanting to keep the thought of maddened men far from her mind. Tonight she would focus on herself and her dancing. “Perhaps you should leave my school and go into a nunnery.” Cersei had snapped at the end of the last session. Normally Margaery was all too able to put some passion into her dance, even if her partner was someone like Osney Kettleblack. But she had almost broken down on the way home. Cersei’s words never usually got to her, but that was because she used to just laugh them off with the help of her best friend. But walking home alone without Sansa… _oh Sansa…_  
“What are you practising for?” The sound of his voice made her spin around again, though the move was a little less controlled this time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Ramsay grinned. He didn’t look sorry.  
“You didn’t.” Margaery insisted breathlessly. How long had he been watching her? Ramsay was a good hunter and could be quieter than a shadow sometimes. The thought of him watching her as she became her alter-ego was unnerving, but also slightly… _no_. Margaery would not allow herself to think it. It would be best if she were to just carry on and pretend his presence had no effect.  
Margaery leapt across the room, her eyes half-closed; desperately trying to ignore his lingering gaze while he leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. The dim lamp light shone off his biceps as he crossed his arms, still grinning.  
_No_ Margaery reminded herself, pirouetting so that her back was to him.  
El Tango de Roxanne started once again; Spanish tones mixing with the light fluttering of the piano before the violins struck up; sharp and aggressive. Demanding to be heard. Margaery listened and moved to the music; sticking to the spot and stretching her arms into elegant gestures, rolling her head as though possessed by the demanding tones. She was quite happy to relinquish control.

_Will drive you, will drive you, will drive you…_

“What are you doing?”

_Mad!_

Margaery span out of his grasp. She hadn’t heard his approach again and the sensation of his arms around her waist had felt…curious.  
“We can’t.” She insisted out loud, though it was more of another reminder for herself than for him.  
“Can’t what?” Ramsay asked, stepping forward. “We’re only dancing.” He assured her. Margaery stood for a moment; listening to the music as it entwined with her racing heart.  
She forced herself to smile and laugh off his enticing stare. “You don’t know how to dance!” She smirked her sideways smirk.  
“Teach me.” Ramsay commanded.  
Margaery span away from him again. She would not be commanded.

_You don’t care if it’s wrong or if it is right, Roxanne_

Ramsay caught her hand as she span around and pulled her back to him. Margaery stayed there for a moment; her hands pressed against his firm chest. Their breath mingled together and she could smell the smoke on his. That intoxicating sense that once revolted her now excited her...

_Roxanne, you don’t have to sell your body to the night_

Pushing him away roughly, Margaery gritted her teeth against the disappointment. Ramsay did not miss her frustration and he smirked; moving away from her slightly as the music slowed down. Margaery tried to continue smiling as though it were all some game; some joke that would end at any minute. But she was struggling. She could feel her heart crying out as the tone of the music changed to a melancholy, wistful tune.

 _His eyes upon your face_  
_His hands upon your hands_  
_His lips caress your skin_

When his hands slipped around her waist for a second time, she forgot who he was entirely, or at least imagined he was who she wanted him to be.

_It’s more than I can stand!_

She leaned back, relishing the closeness of him. His hot breath ghosted over her throat and she could feel her pulse in her neck quicken at the inexistent contact. “Roxanne.” He breathed into her ear, his voice low and husky, causing her to roll her head back onto his broad shoulder. Ramsay pressed into her, his hands tightening around her waist. He slid them down over her hips, making her gasp and shudder, until they reached her hands. He forced them up until they were over her head. Taking control of her, he slid his hands back down her arms; leaving a trail of goose-bumps behind. Margaery bit her lip as his hand lingered beneath her arms and inched towards her breasts. Her breath hitched a little. No matter how hard she bit down, she could not stop the moan escaping her throat.  
_What are you doing?_ a voice inside her screamed. Margaery’s eyes snapped open and she froze. Ewan McGregor’s voice called out to her from beneath Jose Feliciano’s rough tones.

 _Why does my heart cry?_  
_Feelings I can’t fight_  
_You’re free to leave me but just don’t deceive me_  
_And please believe me when I say I love you!_

“Stop it!” Margaery yelled, twisting herself out of his grasp. “I can’t…you should know better too. No matter what’s happened…he’s your…”  
“He doesn’t care. He’s a selfish prick. You deserve better…”  
“You want this. Does that make you a better man?” The smile was gone from her face. In its stead was a desperate, reluctant loathing.  
Ramsay shrugged. Stepping closer, he took her hand roughly in his own; holding it tightly to stop her from tearing it away from him. She didn’t even try. “But I’m what you want right now, aren’t I _Roxanne?_ ” His voice was a low growl but an inviting smile lit up his face.  
The music had died down. All she could hear was his heavy breathing, the thudding of her own heart and the gentle wail of the violins.  
It was just a dance.  
_Just a dance._  
Margaery stepped away from him and he let her go. The music was still quiet; the violins rising and falling.  
_Just a dance._  
She held out her hand as the music began to build. Ramsay pulled her in. There was a steady pulse of violins now. It grew louder and louder. Ramsay held onto her tightly. Their eyes locked and she was unable to look away. _You shouldn’t…you mustn’t…_  
“I need this.” She breathed.  
“Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You do.”  
Ramsay lifted her up. It wasn’t the same. They would work as a team and she would have had to use her core muscles to help him keep her up. But Ramsay was different. He liked to have control. In his grip, she was a doll to be lifted and thrown about as he pleased.  
As he lowered her down, Margaery’s arms slipped around his neck; clinging to him and never wanting to let go. His hands slid south until they smoothed over her thighs. In one swift motion, he hoisted her up and held her there. Margaery’s thighs clung to him and she wrapped her slim, well-toned legs around his hips. He span her around so that they had only a short journey to the wall. His hips ground against hers in time with the music.  
_Just a dance._  
The music lost control at the same time their minds did. It was hard to tell who initiated the kiss, but it happened and it was like a wave; once it had begun to build, there was no stopping it. Ramsay’s desperate moans vibrated against her lips and tongue. He tasted bitter and the scent of tobacco assaulted her nostrils, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to feel something. Anything. Opening her legs a little wider, she guided him in closer so he trapped her between his strong body and the wall.

 _Why does my heart cry?_  
_Roxanne, you don’t have to put on that red light_  
_Feelings I can’t fight_  
_Roxanne, you don’t have to wear that dress tonight_

“Roxanne.” Ramsay panted into her ear, breaking off the kiss. Margaery tilted her head back, gasping as he plastered her neck and collarbone with biting kisses. They were so close. It would take nothing…nothing at all…just a few layers of material. It wouldn’t have to take long either. She doubted it would. They already had a rhythm anyway and there was so much heat between them. The voice inside her head had fallen quiet. Only Ramsay’s ragged breathing filled her head now.  
“Ramsay…” She whispered; her thighs tightening and pulling him ever closer. “Ramsay, I want you.” She growled softly.  
“And I you.” He chuckled back. They started to kiss again.

Neither of them noticed when the music stopped. And when they did notice, neither were sure how long it had silence had dragged on for. They opened their eyes and stared at each other for a long moment. Margaery’s lips were raw and she could taste blood on them. She winced as her tongue ran over the broken flesh. Ramsay stepped away from her and she put her legs down, though she continued to lean against the wall; unsure if she’d be able to remain standing otherwise. Slowly, they both turned to look.  
Domeric’s fist still rested on the stereo from where he had stopped the music. His face was thunderous. His lips trembled in rage. His eyebrows twitched. For a moment, all Margaery could do was watch them. Perhaps it was to avoid his eyes. She could feel the sense of betrayal in them. The grief, the anger, the pain. It saddened her.  
But it angered her more.  
“Domeric…” She started.  
“Dad, get Ramsay out of here before I kill him.” Domeric growled, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to hold back his anger through deep breaths. Her eyes never left his stricken face as Ramsay was led from the room.

They waited outside until they heard the door slam and Margaery’s figure hurried off down the road. She carried no bags but had thrown on her coat.  
“You want me to hunt her down? We know where she’s heading.” Ramsay asked, lighting a fag.  
“Locke will see to her. She knows too much already.” His father turned to look at him and regarded the cigarette with disdain. “I thought you’d given up.”  
“Give me a break. I’ve been sucking up to her for weeks now. Do you know how hard it is to actually get your brother’s girlfriend to like you and be prepared to cheat on him? To be fair, his behaviour hasn’t helped either. And at the end of it all, you two cock-blocker’s bust in without even letting me get a shag. So yeah, I think you owe me a fag.” Ramsay grinned. His blood was up and he needed a night out badly.  
“I owe you nothing bastard.” Roose muttered; eyeing the house for any signs of Domeric’s guaranteed meltdown.  
“It was just a joke dad.” Ramsay rolled his eyes and did his best to blow the smoke away from his father’s face. Roose Bolton seemed to pretend not to have heard him. “Go and wait for us at the Mockingbird. You’re done here. I need to make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish.”  
“Again?” Ramsay smirked and raised a knowing eyebrow. Roose gave him an intense stare. “Alright, alright! I’ll fuck off then shall I?” He raised his arms in mock surrender, turned, and swaggered off down the street, humming El Tango de Roxanne to himself as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a scene from a much bigger story I was planning on writing a while ago. It kinda worked as a one off and I really needed to let it out. Maybe one day I'll actually get around to writing the entire thing. Miracles can happen I suppose!


	3. Rules - Book!Myranda/Ramsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like in the show, Sansa has been sent to Winterfell. But it is not Ramsay she is marrying. Roose's heir, Domeric, is alive and well. Myranda Royce has accompanied her friend and attended her wedding. But the wedding feast proves to be a dull affair and Myranda finds herself looking for someone to keep her entertained.

It hadn’t come as that much of a surprise when Alayne had walked through the Godswood dressed in the colours of House Stark with the red hair of House Tully. Myranda had had her suspicions before she had even set eyes on her. An estranged bastard girl appearing from nowhere? The Lords of the Vale may have been fooled, but she was not. Of course, she told no one of her suspicions. Serving and befriending a daughter of House Stark must have its benefits. Besides, Myranda had never seen the North, and she’d longed to meet a Northman.  
So far, she had been disappointed. Every Lord she had met had remained unmoved by her advances. The Northerners were stone-faced and cold of heart (and cock, apparently). Well, every lord except for Alayne…no, Sansa’s betrothed, who was gentle, quiet and had so far seemed kind. She did not lust for him though, and even if she did, she would not betray her friend so.   
Sansa looked just as bored as she herself felt. It seemed that, despite his gentleness, her new husband was not one for conversation. Sansa looked positively miserable, understandable considering her circumstances, and Myranda considered going to speak to her. But Lord Bolton was there and that man frightened her. Myranda was not easily frightened, especially by men, but she could tell a monster when she saw one. So she’d kept her distance. Sansa had put up with Lord Baelish for years, she was experienced at handling creeps.  
Once again, Myranda’s eyes swept the room in search for entertainment. At the far end of the room a table full of men erupted into laughter that filled the hall. They looked about her age, maybe older. From their clothes, she could tell they were not lords. She doubted they were even knights. But Myranda was bored and could think of no other way to pass the time. After observing them for a while, one in particular caught her eye. He was handsome, in a northern kind of way; pale skin, dark hair and weathered face. But his grin was both charming and enticing and those eyes…they were the same as Lord Bolton’s and Lord Domeric’s, only these held some life in them; some laughter that did not remain frozen and unreserved.   
Downing the dregs at the bottom of her cup, Myranda set it down on the table, stood up steadily and began to move towards them; hips swaying and breasts thrust out slightly. Before she reached their table, she stopped. She wanted him to notice her, but he needed to come to her, not the other way around. Myranda started looking for some form of bait. Something close that would attract their attention, but not in an obvious way. She spotted him hunched over a bowl of stew; completely separate from the other diners. Still walking with swaying hips, Myranda went and sat beside him.  
“You really weren’t the one she was expecting to walk her down the aisle.” His head whipped around so fast she had to prevent herself from snorting with laughter. He almost toppled off of his chair when he saw it was a woman talking to him. “Hello, I’m Myranda. Lord Royce’s daughter.” She smiled, pouring herself another cup of wine and turning to see whether or not the man was looking. He was, though the look on his face was neither curiosity, nor lust. In fact, he seemed to be angry. She turned back to her bait and waited a long while. He seemed to be ignoring her, something she wasn’t used to men doing. “Well? Theon Greyjoy, have you lost your tongue as well as your manners?” She still sounded light hearted, as though it were simply a jest. The man seemed to have forgotten how to take a jest, or make one for that matter. “Go away.” He growled, standing up abruptly. Myranda slid back on the bench as Theon almost toppled over, crying out in pain. It looked as though he were going to fall onto his back, and Myranda just watched; finding herself unable to move as the scene seemed to turn to a slower motion.  
Pale hands slid around his middle and leather coated arms hoisted him up; setting him back down on unsteady feet. “Too much wine Reek?”  
“Y…yes, mas…m’lord…my lord…” Myranda watched as the man that had growled at her slowly shrank down into a quivering wreck.   
“You had best go outside and sort yourself out. I shall see you in my chambers later.” He was no longer looking at Theon. Myranda quickly recovered herself before meeting his gaze and smiling. Perhaps she had mistaken the angry stare earlier. He was even more handsome up close and his gaze was bright enough to take her breath away. He smiled charmingly down at her and took a seat. “Good evening.” He grinned. Myranda quickly composed herself and put on her most sultry smile.  
“And to you.” She turned away from him and poured herself a cup of wine. She could feel his gaze on her; taking her in as she drank. “Can I help you with something?” Myranda asked curtly.  
“No my lady, I’m just curious. There are not many women who would approach him of their own accord. You must have a strange taste in…men.” The grin widened.  
“I don’t like to discriminate. Though I do have rules.” She smiled secretively.  
“And what rules are those?” Her hand, hidden beneath the table, slid over his thigh.  
“All in good time, ser. I hardly know you.”  
“Clearly, otherwise you would know that I am no ser.” He chuckled darkly.  
“Oh?” The handsome man turned to look up at the dais and Myranda once again noticed the similar eyes. She giggled as the pieces clicked together. “Oh, you must be the bastard.” For a moment, the handsome boy was unrecognisable. His face morphed into something bordering on inhuman. Myranda narrowed her eyes but said nothing. He turned to face her full on and the monster was gone. “Yes. I’m Ramsay Snow.” He smiled a tight smile. She could have sworn she could hear his teeth grind together.  
“Myranda Royce.” She replied, trying desperately to ignore the alarm bells that rang in her head.  
“You are Lady Sansa’s friend?”  
“Yes, well, I was Alayne Stone’s friend but now I suppose I am Lady Sansa’s friend.” Myranda forced herself to laugh.  
“It was quite an entrance, I’ll give her that.” Ramsay grinned. “Bastard to highborn in the blink of an eye. Impressive.” He stared at the dais with a look that made her shiver. Still she tried to ignore the warnings. He _was_ handsome.  
“What is he like?” She asked, indicating towards his brother. “Lady Sansa looks positively miserable.”  
“He’s…very serious.” Ramsay mocked, making her laugh. “He’s quiet and plays the harp and is a good rider…”  
“And is the perfect heir in every way?” She offered. Ramsay’s face clouded over. Myranda poured another cup of wine and handed it to him. He took it and drank it all without a word, still glaring at the dais. Then he seemed to remember she was there. “So what is a Lady of your standing doing at the back of the hall with the scum and the bastards?”  
“A handsome young man caught my eye.” Myranda smirked.  
“I take it we aren’t talking about Reek?” Ramsay grinned back.  
“Reek?”  
“Oh…yes, you probably know him as Theon Greyjoy. He’s not Theon Greyjoy anymore, to be truthful.” Ramsay’s grin turned sinister and Myranda had to do her best to suppress a shudder. “But enough about him. Who was this handsome young man whose attention you were trying to gain?” He arched an eyebrow. Beneath the table, she felt a weight on her lap and looked down to see his hand resting there, slowly sliding towards her cunt. The smile might have been charming had she not glimpsed the monster underneath. _He wants to hurt me_. She could see it in his eyes. Looking around, she found her escape route.  
“Him.” She smiled and inclined her head towards the blonde man who had been seated beside Ramsay at the table.  
“What?” Ramsay frowned, turning his head to look.  
“The fair haired one. I thought him very handsome. I seem to have attracted the wrong one though. Such a pity.” Myranda slid out of his grasp. “It was so lovely to meet you, Ramsay Snow.” Smiling demurely, Myranda stood up and turned her back on him, though as she walked away, she could feel him thrust a dagger through her back over and over; murdering her with his dark stare.

She found Sansa in the Godswood the next morning.  
“Lady Sansa, how unexpected it is to find you here. Forgive me, I was looking for my friend Alayne.” Myranda called out on the approach. Sansa looked up from her prayers and smiled brightly.  
They walked through the Godswood together, arm in arm. Myranda shivered slightly in the cold, but Sansa seemed immune to it. She was from the north after all, her new found friend. “So, how was it?” Myranda asked.  
“How was what?” She could tell by the blood rushing to Sansa’s cheeks that she knew exactly what she meant.  
“The bedding, silly!” Myranda did not attempt to lower her voice, making Sansa blush all the more. The sight of her flushed cheeks did remind her of Alayne and Myranda felt all the better to see her.  
“Oh…it was…well, he didn’t die inside of me.” Sansa giggled. Myranda slapped her arm playfully. “You dare to mock my poor departed husband thus?” She squealed. Their laughter filled the Godswood. It made a welcome change from the sorrowful silence. It were as though the entire place were mourning for the dead.  
“So come on, truly, tell me how it was?” Myranda pried. She had never met someone so good at keeping secrets.  
“It was very…satisfactory.” Sansa’s face was now brighter than her hair.  
“Really? Domeric Bolton, a good lover.” They were both silent for a moment before Sansa burst into laughter.   
“Well it was all over so quickly…” She said through fits of laughter. “And when he was done he got up and used the piss pot at the side of the bed. It was awful!” Myranda had to stop walking from the laughter. “And he snores like a pig!” They were both doubled over, having to lean on a tree for support.  
Eventually they pulled themselves together and continued on through the Godswood. “And what about you?” Sansa asked.  
“What about me?”  
“I saw you speaking with Domeric’s bastard brother. Did you…”  
“Did I lay with him? Come Sansa, you know me.” She turned to face her friend and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t bed monsters, as a rule.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Ramsay and Cersei. Oh, that should be a lot of fun XD


	4. Tastes Like Justice - Cersei/Ramsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lord Baelish had come to her and told her what he knew, she had vowed to skin them both alive and put Sansa Stark’s head on a spike. Fortune had been in her favour when it had killed off one leech, leaving only his heir, and when her uncle had suggested she leave King’s Landing and travel the Kingdoms before settling at Casterly Rock. Of course he had sent her north first, probably with the hope of freezing her pride.   
> 'Well your hopes are in vain Uncle. This man has wronged me and soon he shall know it.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, it gets really dark at the end. Like, really fucking dark. If you are squeamish or triggered easily, you might want to stop reading once it reaches Ramsay's POV and just replace what actually happens with rainbows and unicorns or something like that.
> 
> Enjoy!

The trembling grew worse with every mile they travelled. From the wheelhouse that served as her cage, she watched the snowstorm lash and pound the men outside. Good. She needed a storm to match the rage that shook her. As soon as the walls of Winterfell rose on the horizon, Cersei was on her feet and began to pace the short length of the carriage, like the lions beneath Casterly Rock did when they grew angry.   
It felt like a hundred years since she had last travelled north, and yet so much had changed. The savages that roamed the countryside and villages were not content and happy as they had been when the Starks ruled Winterfell. Cersei had smirked to find them sullen and fearful, cowed by the southern power she brought with her, and by the terror caused by their new warden. The thought of him soured the taste of fearful common people. Those treacherous leeches; sucking all the power and wealth from one lord until they were full, then betraying them and moving onto the next one. When Lord Baelish had come to her and told her what he knew, she had vowed to skin them both alive and put Sansa Stark’s head on a spike. Fortune had been in her favour when it had killed off one leech, leaving only his heir, and when her uncle had suggested she leave King’s Landing and travel the Kingdoms before settling at Casterly Rock. Of course he had sent her north first, probably with the hope of freezing her pride.   
_Well your hopes are in vain Uncle. This man has wronged me and soon he shall know it. And so shall you, someday._

When she stepped out of the wheelhouse, her breath turned to frost on the cold air. She looked around the castle first, making no attempt to hide her disdain. The place had greatly changed. It seemed colder, and not just due to the onset of winter. The new stones used to replace the old were cold and sharp, and a good deal darker than the old ones had been. The scent of death and fear lingered in the air. Cersei wrinkled her nose.  
“Your grace.” She turned her head at the sound of the grating voice. Cersei had not even heard of this bastard until his father had been named warden and asked Tommen to legitimise his natural born son. Seeing him now, Cersei concluded he seemed as out of place here in Winterfell as she did. There was an energy to him; a charm that came from his smile and an excitement that came from his eyes. Cersei grimaced. Only the Gods knew what hid behind that face. Soon enough she would find out once she fulfilled her promise of skinning him alive.  
She prowled towards him and offered her hand. His own was cold and calloused; the rough hands of a commoner. Perhaps he had been one once. He did not fit the title of warden any more than he fitted the title Lord of Winterfell. His lips were wet as he pressed them against the fair skin of her knuckles. Cersei wiped her hand on her cloak, feeling sullied.  
“Welcome to Winterfell.” He beamed madly. Cersei forced herself to give a tight smile. “Lord Bolton, how gracious of you to welcome me to your home.”  
“Shall we go outside? You southerners are not thick of skin like we northerners.” The bastard offered his arm for her to take and Cersei did so grudgingly. It would not do to go about this so exposed. She would wait and play her part of cowed Queen-mother, for a short time at least.   
“I trust you had a fair journey?” The man continued to smile. It was beginning to slip beneath her skin. Cersei longed to smack it from his face.  
“A little cold, and the snows did slow our journey, but it was fair enough.” Cersei did not spare him a glance. She was a queen and the bastard was lucky she had done so much as to take his arm.  
“I am glad, though you must be weary. I shall have someone see you to your chambers.” He announced, halting.  “Reek, see the dowager Queen to her chambers. And be sure that she has every comfort.” For a moment, Cersei thought she might vomit. She was used to stenches; the capital stank of shit and commoners. But this was something even fouler. However, the stench was not as foul as the creature that shuffled towards her.  
“What in seven hells is that creature?” She screeched, tearing her arm out of Ramsay’s grasp. The man’s grin seemed to widen until she was sure his face would split in half. “Forgive me, your grace. One does grow so used to one’s own horrors. And he is a horror, isn’t he? But that’s northern justice for you. This man did us a great many wrongs and the north remembers.” He seemed highly amused by his trick, but the Queen dowager was not.  
“Get this creature out of my sight at once.” She growled. Ramsay’s smile fell away, replaced with the stern look of a northern Lord. “Reek, go to the kennels. Her grace is unsettled by your stinking presence. I should have you flayed for insulting her.” Almost instantly, the creature fell to his knees and clasped his hands together.  
“Mercy, please master! Mercy!” He wailed pitifully.  
Cersei watched the performance with horror and a denied fascination. What had he done to this man to make him so? For a moment, Cersei considered how amusing it would be to have her own enemies begging for mercy at her feet, kissing her shoes in a desperate bid to earn affection.  
“To the kennels Reek, I shall decide your fate later. I cannot leave my royal guest standing here alone.” Still weeping, the creature hobbled back into the shadows. Were it not for the lingering stench, Cersei may have thought he had been a figment of her imagination.  
“I do apologise for him your grace, I did not mean to disturb you. Like I said, I am used to the horror that is my pet. I shall get someone else to see you to your chambers. Unfortunately, we are somewhat lacking in handmaidens, and I would not insult you by getting a whore to see you to your chambers.” Cersei was beginning to weary of his games and attempts to unsettle her. If he thought she had not noticed, he was as stupid as he was mad.  
“Lord Bolton. I have been travelling for months and I grow weary of your folly. I wish to be taken to my chambers at once.” Cersei snapped. Her sharp tongue did not seem to unsettle him at all.  
“Of course your grace. Damon!” This time it was not a trembling creature that appeared, but a tall, broad youth with a handsome face and fair hair. Cersei smiled at him. There was no need for her northern visit to be completely without entertainment, and the High Sparrow was thousands of miles away.  
“I trust my friend is more to your liking then my pet?” Lord Ramsay asked. Cersei hardly heard him. Damon smiled back at her boyishly. “This way your grace.” He grinned, offering her his arm. Cersei swept past her host as a queen would a commoner and allowed the fair headed youth to show her the way.

Cersei arrived at the feasting hall on time, her cheeks slightly flushed but not a hair out of place. The feasting hall was not what she had expected. When she had visited Winterfell all those years ago, Lord Stark had thrown a feast in their honour, or more likely just Robert’s honour, and the hall had been filled with people. Even Lord Stark’s brother had come all the way from The Wall.  
But when she entered the room in which they were to dine, she found only the men that had formed her escort and an equal number of Bolton men at the benches. Lord Ramsay sat alone on the dais with the place of honour to his right empty and waiting for her. There was no indication that he was expecting a wife to join them. The hall fell silent and all the men stood, as was customary for royalty. Ramsay beamed at her and pulled out her chair. “Your grace.” He said, bowing deeply. Cersei said nothing, ignoring him as she sat down. “Wine?” He offered her the jug himself. There was no chance of ignoring him then and Cersei gave her consent for him to pour, waiting until he drank some himself before even bringing the cup to her lips. “I had the finest casket in the North brought up from the cellars in your honour.” He admitted as the small hall was filled with noise and laughter.  
“How kind of you.” She said bluntly, drinking deeper.  
“I trust your chambers are comfortable enough.” Ramsay picked through his food, tearing the meat with his bare hands.  
_Northerners._ Cersei grimaced.  
“They are adequate.” She stared out over the men, refusing to look at him.  
“And my man Damon was courteous enough?”  
“Oh yes. Very.” Cersei smirked to herself. Ramsay, noticing she had drained her cup, filled it again.  
“He is a good friend of mine and has served my house well. It was he that dared to start the first fire in Stannis’ camp.” Cersei couldn’t help but smile as she recalled the man who had attempted to steal her sons throne.  
“You attacked with twenty men, is that right?”  
“Indeed. My father doubted my ability to raid, but I showed him otherwise. How fortunate we are that Stannis is such a fool.” Cersei laughed.  
“Indeed. And then he went ahead and burned his daughter. A desperate attempt to get that false God on his side.” Ramsay laughed with her.  
“My men claim they heard the child screaming from the battlements. It is no wonder his men mutinied. I too would have run from that racket.” Cersei’s laughter died, but Lord Bolton continued to chuckle darkly. “Belief is so often the death of reason. We had Stannis flayed, his red Bitch burnt, and his wife…well, she was close to death as it was. It seemed too much like a blessing to kill her quickly. It was better to lock her in a tower and let grief eat away at her like she ate away at her own fingers.” He smirked wickedly at her and tore at a chicken leg savagely. The blood drained from Cersei’s face. “You had her starved?” The bastard nodded matter-of-factly. Cersei placed her cup on the table. She held no love for her sister by law, but a mother’s grief was a sorry thing. Selyse had watched her only child burned before her very eyes, just as she had watched her first born die, poisoned at his own wedding feast.  
Her grip on the cup tightened and she turned back to him, gritting her teeth as her rage flared once more.  
“It is so hard, to lose ones child.” She admitted. Lord Ramsay just shrugged and continued eating like the animal he was. “But you, Lord Bolton, you have no heir as of yet?”  
“Not yet.” Ramsay grinned knowingly.  
“But you have a wife.” She growled, low enough so only he could hear. Lord Ramsay showed no surprise, let alone fear. It only served to irk her further. “I’ve heard a rumour.” She hissed.  
“And what rumour might that be?” He scoffed.   
“You are married to Sansa Stark. That bitch that murdered my son, your King.” Cersei spat, leaning towards him threateningly. “Do you dare to deny it?”  
And still Ramsay’s smile did not falter. His eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement. “Perhaps you would like to see her?” He asked, leaning in so that their breath mingled together; meat mixing with the sweeter scent of wine.

She was no fool. With five chosen men around her, Cersei followed her host from the hall. They could kill him the moment she’d seen her. She stalked her prey through the castle, never taking her eyes off him but listening out for any danger around her; knives in the shadows. There were none, but Cersei was still relieved when Ramsay halted outside a heavy, bolted door.  
“Your men remain out here. I will not have them frightening my wife.” Ramsay’s look was suddenly dark and threatening.   
“The door remains unlocked whilst I am within.” She bargained. A part of her warned her not to go inside, but she would not listen to the coward. Cersei wanted to see the bitch with her own eyes, then she could see to it that her work at Winterfell was done.  
Ramsay nodded his consent and unbolted the door, standing aside so that she may be allowed to enter. Cersei did not tremble, nor fear the darkness and the unknown she stepped into. Slowly, her eyes adjusted and she was able to take in the room. It was considerably small, yet still cold. Her eyes immediately were trained to the bed, and she searched the sheets for any sign of a wolf amongst the pelts. There was none, though the bloodied sheets she glimpsed were somewhat satisfactory on their own.  
“Sweetest wife, where are you?” Ramsay called out to her as he would a dog. From beyond the bed came a rustling and Cersei stepped forward in an attempt to get a closer look. On the floor, a pale face peered out at her from beneath the furs.  
_Help me_ her eyes screamed.  
Cersei smiled.  
“She likes to lay on the floor sometimes, my wolfish little wife.” Ramsay sighed contentedly behind her, but Cersei barely heard him. She almost laughed in disbelief. For so long, she had longed to see Sansa Stark’s head on a spike. But this…this was far more satisfactory. The fearful eyes watched her. She was barely recognisable; her face gaunt, dark shadows had settled beneath her eyes and her hair hung limp about her face. _Not so pretty now.  
_ “Hello little dove.” Cersei called, her smile widening as the girl cringed away from the voice.  
Ramsay moved closer to her so that he stood at Cersei’s shoulder. “Isn’t she beautiful?” He breathed. “Do with her what you will.” He was still staring at the trembling pile of furs, but turned when Cersei smiled at him gratefully. Oh the things she planned to do to this little wolf bitch.  
Ramsay frowned.  
“What?” He asked, turning away from her and moving back towards the door. Cersei’s smile faded when she heard the bolt slide home. When he faced her again, Ramsay’s smile turned sinister. “You didn’t think I was talking to _you_ , did you?” Her heart began to race when from beyond the door, men began to scream for their mothers, only to have their cries turn to gurgling wails as each were slaughtered. “You thought I’d let you hurt my lady wife?” Ramsay’s smile only widened as the blood drained from her cheeks. “Oh no, she’s _mine._ And she’s been waiting for so long and has behaved so well, what kind of monster doesn’t reward a loyal pet?”

Ramsay moved away from the door and took a seat at his desk. The dowager Queen barely had time to turn around before his wife was on her. She kicked and clawed and bit and scratched; the queenly screams filled his ears. The sweetest of music. His wife’s feral growls only added to it.   
For so long she had fought, but Ramsay had come to rather like that. She was not a compliant little bitch like Reek, she was a wolf. Ramsay had come to realise it when he had released her into the forest for a hunt. He and Myranda had chased her through the trees, but soon enough she had just disappeared. He had panicked then. Had she managed to outrun them? He and Myranda had split up to find her, and find her he did; her face stained with blood from where she had ripped Myranda’s throat out. His wife had been weeping, horrified by her own monstrous actions. She had soon calmed when Ramsay had praised and soothed her for it.  
Clearly, Sansa was not horrified by her own monstrous actions now.  
Ramsay watched with sinister glee as Sansa pinned her prey down onto the bed. She had a knife in her hand and was using it to cut and carve at Queen Cersei’s pale flesh. Ramsay grew hard just watching her, but he waited. His Shewolf had earned her fun.  
Cersei was naked now, her finery cut away. Ramsay was amused to see her trying to fight back; his cock straining against his breeches as the lion and the wolf tackled one another.  
“Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon, are they _your grace?_ ” He heard his wolf growl. Cersei roared in anger. “No, the best one is between your legs.” The roar turned to a scream of agony. Ramsay couldn’t wait any longer. Unlacing his breeches, he went and joined them, thrusting into Sansa from behind without warning. Sansa barely seemed to notice. “How’s that weapon faring you now, _your grace_?” He heard her hiss. Cersei whimpered beneath them. Sansa’s hands were slick with blood as they clawed at Ramsay’s waist, trying to force him in deeper.  
She howled when she came, pushing back into him as hard as she could. Ramsay came soon after, to the sound of the dowager Queen’s agonised whimpers.  
When he’d gotten his breath back, Ramsay grasped Sansa’s wrist. She fought a little; her eyes still slightly crazed. As soon as he placed his lips around her index finger and began to suck the blood off, she calmed and watched the blood stain his lips with morbid fascination. When her hands were clean, Ramsay smiled and kissed her forehead gently. Sansa pulled him down roughly and kissed him with a savagery Ramsay had grown to love. She moaned against his lips, pulling away and smiling. “Tastes like justice.” She growled.  


End file.
